Cold
by SorchaDorcha
Summary: Scipio is kidnapped, his captors want a ransom and Dottore Massimo refuses to pay. How will Scipio escape? What can his friends do? Oneshot, no pairings.


Scipio swore quietly. He could hear footsteps behind him, hard-soled boots clacking on stone cobbles. He quickened his pace, hoping against hope that the hulking shapes behind him were simply coincidental. The footsteps quickened.

The ground was slick beneath Scipio's feet, half-melted snow hardening as the night grew ever colder. It was after midnight, he had heard the great clock declaring the witches' hour long ago. Hampered as he was with a cloth bag which carried two mewling kittens, Scipio dodged into dark alleys, twisting and turning as he tried to lose the large men. As his pursuers realised that he was aware of their presence, they gave up any pretence of innocence and broke into a brisk jog.

Scipio swore again, louder this time as he began to run, with the kittens banging into his legs and crying even louder. He rounded a corner, intending to get to the brighter, wealthier parts of Venice, and ran straight into a bulky mass of muscle. The impact sent Scipio flying, slipping on the iced stone and eventually landing flat on his back with all the air knocked out of him. Winded, he lay still, unable to do anything other than wait for the inevitable.

Right on cue, the three men who had been following him for the better part of half an hour careered around the corner and came to an ungainly stop, laughing. They were large and dishevelled two with lank, stringy hair to their ears, the other with a severe crew cut. Their clothes were greasy with oil and dirt and all three wore the heavy black boots with hard soles that had alerted Scipio to their presence.

"Good job, Adriano. Now, let's get young _Master Massimo_ to the boat." The man who had blocked Scipio's way, apparently in charge of the proceedings, gestured to a small black boat moored nearby. The sly emphasis he placed on Scipio's name made the skin crawl.

Recovered from the winding, Scipio felt a cold flash of fear wash through him. He was pulled roughly to his feet and a dirty hand was clamped over his mouth. At this invasion, Scipio panicked and began to kick and thrash, landing a glancing blow or two on his captor but to no avail. In the end, he was simply too light to inflict any real damage and was thrown unceremoniously onto the tiny deck of the boat.

Several rough ropes were produced and Scipio's hands and feet were bound. A dirty rag was tied around his mouth by a man called Marolo, who whispered chillingly into Scipio's ear, "There ain't no point in tryin' to escape, _Master Massimo_. Nobody knows where you are and we ain't tellin'. So you just sit tight and stay on my good side." Scipio could nearly see the shark-like smile taking over Marolo's face and he shivered. His coat had soaked up icy cold water when he fell and it clung to his back, making his teeth chatter.

As the boat pulled away, Scipio could hear the two kittens he had rescued mewling as they tried to free themselves from their cotton prison. Scipio twisted around to see if they had made it but a swift backhand across the face dazed him slightly and he unwillingly abandoned the tiny kittens to a freezing death on the streets of Venice. He wondered if their fate was similar to own.

Hours later, Scipio was still awake and colder than before. His captors shouted across still water at what looked like a disused warehouse with a small jetty. Answering shouts rang back in response and Scipio could feel the small craft shift direction.

"I'm gonna untie your feet now, Master Massimo and you're not gonna try any fancy stuff. If you do, you'll be introduced to my good friend Giulio here. And Mr. Giulio don't like whiny rich kids," Adriano freed Scipio's feet, pushing him onto the landing. Cramps immediately sprung up in Scipio's legs, demanding to be noticed among the various bruises from earlier. He was pulled roughly into the warehouse and pushed onto the ground.

The building was cold enough for Scipio to be able to see his breath when he exhaled and the atmosphere was heavy with cheap cigarette smoke that hung in the air like unwanted thoughts.

There were only two other men in the warehouse. One was small and smelled of old-fashioned hair oil while the other was similar in build to Scipio's initial pursuers. The small man seemed nervous, his foot tapped the cold concrete floor and his hands dithered in front of him as if unsure what they were supposed to do. In contrast, the bigger man was as solid as a brick wall. He was less brawny than the other large men but exuded an air of a man who had maybe seen scenes like this a few times before.

"We've called _Dottore_ _Massimo_ and he has reacted as planned," the smaller man had an accent that labelled him as a foreigner, his voice and mannerisms too were different to those typically found in Venice and the surrounding areas. "Do you think he'll continue this way, Raul?" He addressed his companion who merely grunted in reply.

"Adriano, when're we gonna be gettin' the money? The brat's papa better pay quick, I need ta get me some stuff quick. And I don't wanna be waitin' around." Marolo was standing behind Scipio, but Scipio could hear the threats thinly-veiled in his question.

"Like I told you, Marolo, he'll pay up. We just gotta wait. You go to bed, I'll take first watch." Raul's voice was guttural and gravely, perfectly fitted to his outward appearance.

"He better pay up. I don't want this to be a waste of my time," Scipio could hear Marolo muttering as he left, with murmurs from his companions as they headed up a set of stair to the right of the door.

"You get some sleep, brat. It don't improve from here." Raul's brief statement was accompanied by a thin blanket being tossed to Scipio. It would do little against the bitter cold but it would be better than nothing. Scipio awkwardly covered himself with the material and lay down. He wanted to think of an escape plan but none were forthcoming and after several moments, exhaustion overtook him and Scipio succumbed to sleep.

"It's been a fuckin' _week_, Adriano! I need that money!" Marolo swore and stamped as he raged up and down the length of the warehouse.

A week had passed since Scipio had been taken while on his way to deliver two kittens to Bo at the Stella. A week of cold, hunger and occasional kicks and punches when the kidnappers' demands had been met with stony silence by Dottore Massimo. Scipio had wondered if he was dreaming but the constant discomfort had soon dismissed that particular notion.

His captors seemed unconcerned about debating their plans in front of Scipio, as if confident that he could not hope to escape. And certainly, escape seemed unlikely. Of course, Scipio had tried several times but with no luck. He had reached the door before being caught, when he was dragged back inside and treated to an energetic beating from Marolo, who seemed most eager to offer his services. This had resulted in what Scipio had suspected to be fractured ribs and several bruises.

But it was nothing compared to the second beating. In truth, Scipio remembered very little of the event. He recalled getting a breath of fresh air before a meaty arm grabbed him around the waist and a knife sliced through his coat and reached his shoulder. After that, a strange mist had descended on Scipio's mind, as if to protect himself from the violence. All he knew was that, when he woke later, some bandages had been haphazardly wrapped around his shoulder and he _hurt_. There were many occasions where Scipio blanked out, though he did not know if they were drug-induced or a result of the severe cold reaching deep into his bones and mind.

"Okay. That's it. We'll leave the young master where he'll be found a few hours after we're gone. And we'll leave a mark or two to show Papa Massimo that we mean business," Marolo smiled at Scipio. It wasn't a comforting smile. It was a smile that said _'Oh,_ _I'm going to have fun with you. And you're not going to like it'. _Scipio felt the now-familiar feeling of fear slip down his back like an icicle.

That night, Scipio was once-again bundled into the small black boat, with his hands and feet bound. He was hungry, having eaten only some bread and cheese much earlier that day, and his injured ribs and shoulder prevented his from finding any comfortable position. The journey passed quickly for Scipio, drifting on the border of consciousness, called to the surface only when he was hauled onto dry land again. Ribs grating, shoulder throbbing in pain, Scipio gasped as he fell face-first onto fresh snow. The cold penetrated him, stripped as he was of coat, blazer and shoes.

He wasn't left in the snow for long. Marolo, Adriano and Raul advanced on his, pulling Scipio up to give them leverage to attack. Adriano had a knife, cutting and tearing at Scipio's skin, just deep enough to let blood flow freely. The others used mainly their heavy boots, kicking and punching until Scipio felt a tooth fall. After several minutes, blackness began to cloud Scipio's vision, he felt his strength drain away as if leaving his body through his freezing feet.

As a final humiliation, Scipio was pulled to the edge of the canal. He struggled against Raul's grip of steel, twisting as far as his protesting body would let him but it was pointless. He was thrown in.

The cold rushed up to meet him in a black wash of shock. No sooner had he realised what had happened was he pulled out, shaking and spluttering, his lips blue, all feeling lost from his limbs. Scipio lost all sense of time, place and being; the only thing he was aware of was the cold. He could not remember being warm, could not comprehend heat, had no inkling of how to survive. At this stage, Scipio could feel his body shutting down. He knew he had little to no chance of survival as the three dark, bulky shapes unmoored their boat and left him for dead.

Prosper was beyond the stage of panic. Scipio had not been heard from in over a week, the police were looking for him, and his father had received demands of a ransom but had not paid. Prosper was beginning to give up hope of ever seeing the Thief Lord ever again. He was walking with Riccio along one of Venice's smaller canals, later than he was usually out of the Stella. He knew Bo would be worried sick, could imagine his small face trying to hide the fear he felt for his older brother, trying to believe Hornet and Mosca's reassurances that Prosper, Riccio and Scipio were all perfectly safe.

"Prop? Did you hear that?" Riccio had stopped, listening.

"It's probably just a dog or something, Riccio. Come on. We're late already." Prosper tried to pull Riccio with him but with no success.

"No, Prosper, I heard something fall into the water. And there was an engine too. We should find out, someone might be in trouble," Riccio was already heading towards the canal, an unwilling Prosper following a few paces behind.

"_Holy shit! Prosper! It's Scipio – _shit! Oh God, oh God, Scipio, please, Scipio, don't be dead, please! Prosper, help me!" Riccio was kneeling beside an inert form on the ground. The person was wearing a torn white shirt and dark, ripped jeans soaked with water. Prosper ran closer, dropping opposite Riccio. It was Scipio. He looked dead. His skin was icy cold, his lips blue, his clothes soaking, bruises and cuts covering his body.

"I'll- I'll go get help," Riccio stuttered before jumping to his feet and flying around the corner. Prosper could hear his frantic footsteps fading into the distance.

Prosper could do nothing but wait, chafing Scipio's hands and feet, checking the faint pulse every minute. After an agonising wait, during which Prosper held Scipio close, as if trying to pass his body heat to Scipio's freezing body, footsteps rang through the alley. Riccio returned with Victor, who was half-dressed and carrying a thick woollen blanket.

"Prosper, we've called the ambulance. They'll be here soon. We need to get those wet clothes off him, get him as dry as possible. Help me, boys," Victor was pulling Scipio's shirt over his head, exposing more damage underneath the material. They removed Scipio's jeans too, rubbing his arms, legs and chest in a desperate attempt to dry him and increase blood flow. After several minutes, a siren pierced the air.

The hospital boat pulled up beside the three and paramedics rushed out. They quickly took control and loaded Scipio onto the boat. Victor was instructed to bring the boys home and come straight to the hospital. Scipio's father had been notified.

It was two days after Scipio had been found and Prosper sat outside the hospital room. Dottore Massimo was inside, on one of his short visits. The occupants of the Stella had stayed clear of him, hoping to pass as visitors coming to somebody else.

The door to Scipio's room opened and the Dottore emerged, deep in discussion with a nurse. Neither noticed Prosper who slipped in after them. Bo, Riccio, Hornet and Mosca followed. Scipio was lying on the bed, as white as the pillow, the bruises standing out as stark reminders of his ordeal.

He did not move.

As time passed, the others began talking quietly, slightly in awe of their surroundings. Suddenly, Scipio shifted slightly. Their conversations forgotten, the others crowded around the bed. Scipio murmured something inconrehensible and his eyelids fluttered.

"Scipio. We're here. Can you hear me?" Hornet whispered, her hand on Scipio's, holding it tight.

Scipio murmured again and slowly, ever so slowly, opened his eyes. His gaze wandered for a moment, taking them all in, his heart monitor the only thing that broke the hushed silence. His eyes widened in surprise then he smiled, a full, beautiful smile that lit up his face despite the patchwork or bruises and scrapes on his skin.

Scipio was safe.


End file.
